Chapter Thirty-Five
Thirty-Five
Caine
Me: Got a question for my favorite sister.
Me: If I was going to bury some trash in the woods, how deep would I have to go to make sure animals won’t smell it and dig it up?
Delaney: Do NOT bury trash in the woods.
Delaney: You will be dead and gone, and that plastic will still be out there.
Me: It’s organic, nutrient-rich trash.
Delaney: That biodegradable shit still takes forever too. Dispose of your garbage appropriately.
Me: Say I was going to bury a bunch of rotten steaks in the woods. Like a human-sized cow’s worth. How deep?
Incoming call from Delaney
I’m not ashamed to admit that I go to my little sister when I have questions I’m worried might land me on a watch list. Usually, they’re for something to do with the haunt.
Like how far arterial spray can actually go, how much force it would take to break a neck, or in this case, how deep to bury a body if I don’t want critters to start snacking on it.
She watches a lot of true crime, so she’s full of fun facts, but today’s particular question is perfectly within her area of expertise.
Delaney has a PhD in wildlife biology and spends weeks at a time in the Montana wilderness, monitoring a given grizzly bear population with little to no human interaction.
When she does grace civilization with her presence, she teaches at the local university and terrorizes hunting guides she’s convinced aren’t operating ethically.
I wish she lived closer, not just because she’s my sister and I like her, but because my gut says she and Margot would hit it off.
By the time I get off the phone with Delaney, I’ve confessed to nothing but know exactly where and how to bury the plastic-wrapped bastard in the back of my truck.
When Shane purchased his house and the two hundred acres it sits on, Delaney and I each bought five acres from him for the hell of it.
At the time, we joked that we’d use them if we ever needed to bury any bodies.
Funny how that worked out.
Margot and I are driving the bumpy, more-than-a-trail, less-than-a-dirt-road path out to my acreage now.
She was quiet on the drive over from the haunt, only speaking when she called the groomer—who also boards dogs—to ask if Gremlin could stay overnight.
I’m a little concerned, but I get it. It’s been a hell of a day, and even though the sun has set, it’s not even close to over.
When I see the first bright orange tape wrapped around a tree, marking the beginning of my plot, I glance at her.
“How are you holding up?”
“All right.” She reaches over and grabs my hand. “How about you?” She scrutinizes me. “I’m worried about your head. There’s no way you don’t have a concussion. You shouldn’t be exerting yourself.”
I give her a look right back. “Your head isn’t one bit better.”
“Debatable.” As she says it, she pulls down the mirror to examine her face, which is already calicoed in various shades of purple and almost black. “Good grief. Remind me to cancel all Zoom calls this week.”
Every time I look at the bruise spreading from her cheekbone across her right eye, I want to resurrect Nicholas and kill him again. Slower. With a cheese grater or something equally torturous.
Despite the pleasure I took in dispatching Nicholas, I’m worried about the toll this will take on Margot.
She’s tough, but there’s no way today didn’t rattle her.
There is a big difference between pushing someone through a window during a heated moment, and what I did today—even if both instances could be chalked up to self-defense.
If I could rewind time, I’d orchestrate things to shield her more.
The only guilt I feel is that while I ultimately protected her physically, I didn’t protect her mentally.
Why didn’t I tell her to go to the office sooner?
Why didn’t I think?
The answer doesn’t paint me with a complimentary brush. My bloodlust overrode my common sense. I owe her an apology for that.
Margot
I will not cry.
I’m not the one who just killed someone.
But I should have been.
The awareness prickles behind my eyes and sits in my throat.
It should have been me, not Caine, doing the dirty work.
Even as we’re walking his acreage with flashlights, deciding where to dig, his eyes keep drifting back to me.
Well, his eye—one eye is so swollen it’s nearly shut, the left side of his face purple and scraped.
Caine told me how one minute he was walking down the hall, and the next he was waking up on the supply closet floor with his hands and ankles zip-tied.
While I was running around the woods, he was cutting himself free using the corner of a storage shelf and kicking down the door, which Nicholas had locked from the outside.
Despite the fact that he’s handling the situation with his usual cheerfulness, I’m worried.
“We’re going to do this slowly. Take breaks,” I tell him. “No overdoing it.”
“Please, I’m basically indestructible.” He grins, wincing slightly. “Just a little headache.”
“How do you just have a headache?” I protest. “My headache gets worse looking at you.”
Caine shrugs, the movement stiff. “Hard head.” After a thoughtful moment, he adds, “Instead of having a hard ass, I have a hard head. I’m Wombatman.” He grins. “Get it?”
I get it, and it’s ridiculous, but I love it.
Just like I love him.
The thought—and how true it is—startles me so much it makes tears spring to my eyes, which, of course, Caine notices.
“Hey, hey,” he soothes, switching his flashlight to his other hand to take mine. “No more puns, I got it. Murder, two thumbs up. Puns, two thumbs down.”
That makes me laugh, so then I’m cry-laughing. In the middle of the woods in the middle of the night, about to bury my ex-husband’s body. Caine squeezes my hand, but I feel it around my heart, which is absolutely certain that—murder and all—here with him is better than anywhere with anyone else.